


The Lisp

by auburn



Series: Bad Wigs [4]
Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Out of Date, Season/Series 02, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auburn/pseuds/auburn
Summary: Bad Wigs fluff. Floofy shmoop.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eretria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eretria/gifts).



> Posting old fic to AO3. 3.15.2004
> 
> The LJ post said I blamed it on eretria. I still do. You should as well.

_"EEeeeeeeek!"_ Sydney screamed, sitting up in Sark's bed and staring at the stranger that had just walked out of his bathroom. She grabbed the sheet and pulled it up. Then she looked closer.  
  
"Oh, my God, what have you done?" she exclaimed. "Your hair, your eyes - Jesus, Sark, you don't do disguises."  
  
Sark, for it was Sark, albeit a hazel-eyed, brown-haired Sark dressed in off-the-rack casual clothes and peering at her through black plastic horn-rimmed glasses, sighed. "On the contrary, Sydney, you merely have never recognized me when I wore a disguise. That being the point of the exercise."  
  
She scrambled up to the head of the bed, tucking the sheet firmly over her breasts (never mind that he'd had his mouth all over them earlier). She tipped her head and looked closer. Wow. She knew it was Sark, so she could see it was him, but if she didn't . . . That was a good disguise. And who knew? She'd thought only Ewan McGregor could look that good wearing geeky horn-rims.  
  
"So why are you in disguise?"  
  
Sark glanced at his watch.  
  
"Because you have a CIA New Year's Party to attend and I'm going to crash."  
  
"You're joking."  
  
Sark shook his head, silky chestnut brown hair shifting. He'd done something that made his hair lie flatter without looking greasy. No cow-lick. Straightened, his hair was a bit longer than Sydney had thought. He pushed the glasses back up his nose with his middle finger and she giggled. Every time she saw someone do that, she thought of them giving the finger. Of course, with Sark, he might be.  
  
"Of course not. My Formula 47, my fun. You want to spike the punch, I want to see your ever so upright colleagues after a few glasses."  
  
"You're such a creep."  
  
"I'm not the one who handed a cup of it to her own father," Sark pointed out with a smirk.  
  
Oh god, she had. It had to have been a brief psychotic break. That was all. But not so brief, since she'd followed that by coming back to Sark's penthouse apartment, persuading him to retrieve another couple bottles of Rambaldi love juice, and then screwing both their brains out without bothering with any aphrodisiac.  
  
She couldn't even summon a smidgen of regret about that last part, either.  
  
"So how are you getting in?"  
  
Jesus, was she going along with this?  
  
It really was time to start thinking about medication.  
  
"As your date."  
  
Sydney gaped at him.  
  
"Come on, Sydney," Sark said. He picked her dress off the floor and tossed the slip after it. "Everyone should be drunk enough by now that they wouldn't recognize their own mothers, much less me."  
  
With a put-upon sigh, Sydney slid out of the bed and headed for the bathroom, sidling past Sark and trying to pretend she wasn't aware of how he was looking at her naked body. "I need a shower."  
  
"Make it fast." He lifted a strand of hair off her neck and ran his finger down to her shoulder, then snatched his hand back before Sydney could whip around and break his fingers.  
  
She held up her middle finger behind her back as she stepped into the bathroom.  
  
"I could join you," he taunted.  
  
"You could die, too," Sydney yelled back, turning on the shower. "Don't you know bathrooms are the most dangerous place in a house? How would it look if you happened to 'slip' and broke your neck in the tub, Sark?"  
  
Cleaned up and having steamed the worst of the wrinkles out of her dress, she dressed and scooped up the two plastic bottles of Formula 47 as she followed Sark to the elevator.  
  
"You know someone will recognize you the first time you open you mouth," she observed.  
  
"No, they won't, Thydney," Sark lisped, sans British accent.  
  
Sydney shuddered and backed up against the wall. "Was that - was that a _lisp?_ "  
  
Sark grinned.  
  
"Yeth."  
  
Sydney sprang across the elevator and slapped her palm over his mouth. "No, for the love of God, don't lithp - I mean, _lisp_." Shivers were still running through her body.  
  
Sark moved his lips against her hand, saying something muffled, then licked her palm. She snatched her hand away. Little warm tingles were still zapping through her. The man needed to register that tongue as a potentially lethal weapon. A woman with a weaker heart than hers might just expire when he started using it. Which wouldn't bother her a bit, because she was starting to think she might have to kill anyone who messed around with _her_ Sark.  
  
She backed up against the elevator wall and thumped her head against it repeatedly. What was she thinking? First, she slept with him again. Now she was getting possessive? A couple of weeks ago, she still thought he was her mother's private property. Plus there was Vaughn, who was her . . . okay, he wasn't really her boyfriend, but they were in love, weren't they? They were soul mates - ach, gag, no, stop with the soap opera sap - Vaughn was her handler and she had a thing for him, because (a) he was fine (b) he was nice and (c) he was one of the few people who knew the truth about her. Looked at that way, Sark was very much in the running; he wasn't nice, but he didn't demand she be nice, either, while he too knew all about her and was better than fine. She thumped her head back against the elevator wall again.  
  
"Don't do that," Sark said, pulling her into his arms and running his hand between her head and the wall. He kept his hand on the crown of her head and his other arm around her through the rest of the elevator ride down. Sydney stayed stiff and resistant in his hold about three seconds. Sark, despite the cold looking exterior, did hugs very well and didn't get uncomfortable and draw away. He liked touching her and apparently had no inhibitions about doing so - other than the sensible worry that she might try to permanently cripple him.  
  
"Don't get all lispy and limp-wristed, then," she said.  
  
"What'th wrong with my lithp?" Sark asked, a wicked glitter in his eyes.  
  
"It's wrong. It's just wrong and against the physical laws of the universe, okay?" she muttered. It was really, really wrong that Sark _lisping_ was turning her crank. She certainly wasn't going to admit it to him. He'd start doing it at SD-6 briefings or in the middle of a firefight and he was already hard enough on her concentration. Besides, what the _hell_ was that? Did people actually have lisp kinks?  
  
Sark chuckled.  
  
"It doesn't fit you," she said weakly.  
  
"What about the limp-writhted part?" He was laughing at her, but she didn't mind for once.  
  
"Not you either."  
  
"Thank you, I think."  
  
She let him guide her to his car, got in and set the two plastic bottles of Formula 47 between her feet.  
  
"Buckle up," Sark said.  
  
Sydney put on her seatbelt and then looked at Sark. "Since when do nefarious terrorists worry about seatbelts?"  
  
"Since I don't want to be stopped and explain why my looks and ID don't currently match the owner of this car," Sark explained.  
  
Sydney grinned. "Point."  
  
The drive to the hotel where a reception room had been reserved for the party was an adventure in itself. Sark threaded the black Mercedes through the merry-making drivers with ruthless panache. He handed her out with a subtle leer when the split skirt on her red dress slid open all the way to her hip as she stepped out.  
  
"Wipe off the drool, dog-boy," Sydney said.  
  
"There are several mirrored surfaces in SD-6's offices, Sydney. I've seen you watching my arse," Sark replied.  
  
She flushed and tried to give him the cold shoulder as she walked by, but Sark slipped his arm through her elbow and matched her stride. "By the way," he said as they entered the hotel foyer, "my name's Julian Andrews, and I work for a think tank that does consults for the Agency. We met accidentally at your friend Francie's restaurant, but I knew who you were from my work."  
  
"That won't hold up," Sydney pointed out.  
  
He shrugged.  
  
"If it doesn't, I'll have to shoot somebody and you'll have to explain why I was here - with you."  
  


***

  
  
"I cannot believe I'm doing this," Sydney whispered, as she surreptitiously emptied a bottle of glowing green Formula 47 into the biggest punch bowl.  
  
Standing in front of the makeshift bar, with his back to the room to give her cover, Sark smiled. "It wath your idea."  
  
"No, it wasn't," Sydney hissed. "You used it at SD-6 first."  
  
Sark set his hands on the table top and leaned forward. Even with the color-changing contacts, his eyes glimmered with mirth. "Tell me you don't think Sloane deserved it." With the lisp, it came out sounding like 'Thlone' and Sydney had to grit her teeth, not sure if she was horrified or turned on in addition to wanting to snicker.  
  
The snicker won out. Sydney pursed her lips, but couldn't hold back the laughter.  
  
"God, Sark, Ariana Kane? You really know how to torture someone."  
  
Sark buffed his fingernails on his suit jacket and peeked at her through his eyelashes. "It's a gift."  
  
He glanced around at the less than inspiring decorations, the makeshift bar set up at the table and the sad, left-over Christmas lights strung around the room. Clumps of CIA agents in JC Penny's suits with their ties loosened drifted around the room. Here and there, some of them were already slumped in chairs, well on their way to passing out. "This is pathetic."  
  
Sydney had to agree. It made the SD-6 party, even without Sark's spiked drinks, look like a blast.  
  
Weiss bumbled over to the table, gave Sark a drunken slap on the shoulder without really looking at his face and exclaimed, "Syd! It's about time."  
  
"Hi, Weiss," she said.  
  
"So, are you going to pour me some of that punch?" Weiss asked.  
  
Sydney flinched.  
  
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather have a beer? Or some tequila?" she asked.  
  
Weiss shook his head. His normally neat hair flipped onto his forehead. He was already flushed and weaving on his feet. Sark grabbed his arm to keep him from stumbling into the table with the punch and other drinks.  
  
"Whoa. Thanks, pal."  
  
"My pleasure," Sark said. Lisped. It made Sydney shudder.  
  
"Come on, Syd, I saw you spiking the punch," Weiss wheedled.  
  
"Oh shit."  
  
Sark grabbed a bottle at random. "Have a beer, Agent Weiss," he said, shoving the Corona into Weiss' hand, "and forget you saw that." The flat American accent and the lisp were perfect. He didn't sound a bit like himself. Sydney hated that. She wanted Sark's voice back, sounding like _Sark_.  
  
Weiss grabbed onto the bottle and blinked at the guy who had been talking to Sydney. Slowly, his dark eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Brown hair with loose curls, brown eyes, black horn-rimmed glasses, taller than he looked, lean and slim and suddenly all too familiar. Weiss knew this guy, all right, and he surer than shit didn't belong at a CIA party, unless it was one to celebrate his capture and arrest. It was the crooked, sardonic smile that gave the man away. "Holy guacamole! You're - !"  
  
Sark laid his index finger over his lips in the universal _shhhh_ sign.  
  
Sydney had gone dead white and was whispering to herself. "Oh, crap, double crap, crap on crap, crap on toast; _I am so screwed._ " And she didn't mean that in the good, just crawled out of the sack with Sark way, either.  
  
Sark looked straight at Weiss through the clear glasses.  
  
He grinned.  
  
"Come on, Agent Weiss, we're just having a bit of fun," he said in his own voice. He picked up a plastic tumbler and ladled some punch into it. "It's harmless. Sydney and I will drink some of this, too, if you're really worried."  
  
Weiss looked at Sark and then the tumbler of laced punch suspiciously.  
  
"Harmless."  
  
"Tell him, Sydney."  
  
Sark handed her the tumbler. She eyed it. Sark grinned and mouthed, _'I dare you.'_ Various thoughts about the effect from last time floated through her head. Hmn. They had managed to pull of the mission and this wasn't a mission and she had every intention of going back to Sark's apartment with him anyway ... Wait. What the hell? When had she decided that?  
  
Apparently, tonight she had finally lost it, but in light of that decision, a little love juice wouldn't make much difference. But she'd make sure Sark drank some too, if she had to hold his nose and pour it down him.  
  
"It's Formula 47," she muttered. "Sark and I have both had it." Reluctantly, she took a sip, then handed it to Sark, who also took a sip when Sydney turned her fiercest glare on him.  
  
Weiss shrugged and accepted the tumbler, also taking a small sip. Good stuff. He drank the rest of the tumbler's contents.  
  
Sydney squeezed her eyes shut. How much had Weiss just drunk? She needed to go have a lie-down.  
  


***

  
  
"What is it?" Weiss asked.  
  
Sark tipped his head to the side and smiled mischievously. "An aphrodisiac designed by Milo Rambaldi."  
  
Weiss choked and coughed wildly and Sydney groaned. When he could breathe again he looked from Sark to Sydney, then back, then shook his head dizzily. "You and Sark ... um ... you and Sark?"  
  
Sydney turned bright red. Sark looked at her interestedly. The glasses gave him a studious look. To Weiss, aside, he said, "I've never seen her turn that color before."  
  
"Neither have I," Weiss admitted.  
  
Sydney gave them both a look that promised retribution in the near future.  
  
He was starting to smile again. He glanced at the punch bowl and thought about Vaughn and the rest of the stiff-necked CIA suits He popped the top off the Corona and took a drink. Sydney and Sark were really just doing them all favor. Of course, he wanted to know why they were doing this. "So what are you two up to?"  
  
"Well, it all started when Sloane sent Sark and me on that mission here in LA," Sydney said. She stopped and found a bottle of tequila. "I need to get drunk to do this." She glanced at Sark. "Unless you want to tell him about Cornelius and those damn pants?"  
  
Sark shuddered at the memory. Weiss found that oddly endearing. He'd never thought anything could phase Sark. Say what you like about him, the guy was cool under pressure. He wanted to pat him on the back and say 'Ah, there, there, it's all over now.' Weiss blinked. Had he really just thought that? About Sark?  
  
"Grab another bottle," Sark said.  
  
Sydney did. "I thought so."  
  
"That bad, hunh?" Weiss said.  
  
Sark and Sydney shared another of _those_ looks and said together. "Worse."  
  
Sark ran his hand through his dyed hair and muttered, "Effing Sloane."  
  
Weiss grabbed a couple tumblers and followed the two field operatives away from the bar. When he offered one to Sark, the assassin gave it scornful look. "We don't need no _stinkin'_ glasses," Sark said.  
  
A grin spread over Weiss' face. _"Treasure of the Sierra Madre._ Total classic. You a movie buff?"  
  
Sark raised an eyebrow. "Black and white films only."  
  
Weiss slung an arm over Sark's shoulders. "That's cool." He looped his other arm over Sydney's shoulders and squeezed. He leaned her way and sniffed. Just as he'd thought. Her hair smelled good. He checked out Sark's hair next, catching a fading chemical smell from whatever he'd colored it with and the exact same shampoo scent as Sydney.  
  
The three of them retired to a quiet corner where they could observe the rest of the party and talk without being heard. A large, potted rubber palm hid them as they huddled together in the corner. Weiss sipped his beer and thought how unfairly gorgeous Sydney and Sark both were. They really looked stunning together.  
  
Sark opened his bottle of tequila and swallowed a slug without blinking. Not to be outdone, Sydney started on hers. Weiss watched them both, wide-eyed and amazed.  
  
"Cornelius?" he prompted.  
  
Sydney and Sark looked at each other, winced, and each took another drink before beginning to speak.  
  
"Big -  
  
" - albino -"  
  
" - kinky -"  
  
" - very - "  
  
" - and we were supposed to be his 'escorts' for the night."  
  
Another mutual shudder was followed by judicious - read generous - ingestion of more tequila. Sydney was starting to list, shoulder against Sark's shoulder. Sark didn't seem to notice, frowning at the top of his tequila bottle.  
  
" - how _doeth_ your father know Thilenko?"  
  
Sydney rolled her eyes. "Like I want to know."  
  
Sark considered that and nodded. "You're right. It's not a picture I want in my head either." His accent was slipping back and forth between faintly slurred British diction and the put-on lisp. It was very disconcerting. He brought the tequila bottle to his mouth again.  
  
Weiss just listened and watched in fascination. Sydney and Sark were headed for alcoholic oblivion at light speed and getting more and more entertaining every minute. He'd never imagined spending New Years' Eve with a beautiful double agent and a wanted terrorist who were both smashed out of their minds. And very, very hot, he acknowledged to himself.  
  
"And?" he prompted them. God, it was hot in this corner. Weiss yanked his tie the rest of the way off and shrugged out of his suit jacket. It wasn't like the service pistol holstered at the small of his back was going to shock Sydney or Sark. They probably had rubber guns they took in the bath with them instead of duckies.  
  
"So Sloane had op-tech put us in these goth-prostitute costumes - "  
  
" - the fucking zipper broke - "  
  
" - when we were in the closet - "  
  
Sydney looked sidelong at Sark and giggled. He glared at her narrow-eyed. "It was damn frustrating."  
  
"But you were so cute, with the eye-liner and the nail polish and the lipstick," she said, reaching over and walking her fingers up Sark's arm. "And your navel ring."  
  
Weiss couldn't stay quiet. "Navel ring?"  
  
Sydney nodded. "It's silver."  
  
Sark flushed.  
  
"You've got a navel ring?" Weiss asked in fascination. The words popped out before he could stop them. "Show me."  
  
Before Sark could do anything more than blink in surprise at Weiss' demand, Sydney had reached over and jerked his shirt tails out of his pants and begun unbuckling his belt with obvious familiarity. The belt undone, she shoved the waistband of Sark's trousers down far enough to display washboard abs and the appealing glint of a silver ring in his navel.  
  
"Sydney, don't - " Sark choked out, right before she hooked her pinky in the ring and tugged gently. Sark let his head fall back against the wall with a thud and a groan. Sydney grinned at Weiss.  
  
"Isn't it darling?"  
  
Sark batted at her hand. Weiss bent to the side and peered. Sydney tugged again. Weiss decided that looked like fun and reached over. Sark whipped his head around and stared at him with very wide eyes behind the fake glasses. He let his head drop back again as Weiss discovered the ring was too small to hook any of his fingers in.  
  
"Damn, I forgot he drank the punch," he muttered at the ceiling and then he wriggled as Weiss ran an experimental finger up under his shirt and hit a ticklish spot.  
  
Sydney hooked an arm around his neck and leaned close enough that her tequila breath mixed with Sark's.  
  
Weiss lifted his head. Sark noticed the CIA agent had truly beautiful dark eyes. Then he thought, _Good Christ, I only drank one mouthful of the damn punch_. Punch. Maybe that would work. He curled his hand into a fist and punched Weiss in the stomach, though not terribly hard.  
  
Weiss fell back into his chair and stared, rubbing his stomach absently. Sark tried to glare at him.  
  
"What? Why'd you - that's going to bruise," Weiss whined.  
  
"It's the Formula 47," Sydney told him. "You're ... um, starting to feel the effects."  
  
"I am?"  
  
"Well, normally you wouldn't be feeling me up, would you?" Sark asked.  
  
"I might think about it," Weiss said.  
  
"Weiss!" Sydney exclaimed.  
  
"What? I've got an open mind."  
  
Sark turned his head and glanced through the fronds of the fake palm. He sat up straight with a jolt. Doing so almost knocked Weiss off his chair and caused Sydney to fall into his lap, but he barely noticed.  
  
"Video tape," Sark said to himself, staring at the scene. "Why didn't I think of videotape?"  
  
Weiss had his balance and was looking to see what had Sark so mesmerized.  
  
Sydney crawled across Sark's lap and pushed a frond aside enough to see, too.  
  
"Whooo," Weiss commented.  
  
"Yeah," Sydney agreed.  
  
Sark just watched in disbelief. Finally, he found his voice again. "Is that _Devlin?_ "  
  
Weiss nodded. "With his tongue down his secretary's throat."  
  
"And her hands down his pants," Sydney added.  
  
"Well, you know, it kind of goes with his having his hands up her blouse."  
  
Weiss and Sydney both giggled. Sark decided he needed more tequila. Luckily, there was still plenty in his bottle. Sydney shifted on his lap, narrowly avoiding kneeing him as she leaned farther forward, one hand braced on Weiss' shoulder. More tequila. Sometimes it seemed like it wasn't safe to be around Sydney even when she wasn't trying to kill him.  
  
"Oh my God, that's Vaughn!"  
  
Sark leaned back and peered. He frowned. Why was she so enamored of bloody Sir Galahad? Personally, he couldn't see the attraction. If he bent that way he'd be more inclined toward Weiss, who at least had a sense of humor.  
  
Was that Vaughn? He looked again. It was hard to tell, since the agent was wrapped up and apparently dancing with a woman a head taller than him, with wider shoulders too. Sark thought it was woman. Because of the dress. The CIA didn't hire a lot of cross-dressing transsexuals as far he knew.  
  
"Who is that with him?" Sydney hissed to Weiss.  
  
"Ms. Halkey from Personnel."  
  
"I thought it was a dancing bear from the Moscow Circus," Sark commented. Weiss clamped a hand over Sydney's mouth as she shrieked with laughter. Sark looked at Weiss. "It wasn't that funny."  
  
Weiss grinned back at him. "Well, her name is Ursula, you see, and she has a mustache. And she could snap Mike in two like a wishbone."  
  
"That might be entertaining."  
  
"You're a cold, cruel man."  
  
"And proud of it."  
  
Weiss snorted. Then he yelped and snatched his hand away from Sydney's mouth. "Jesus, Syd, you bit me!"  
  
"You had your thumb over my nose. I needed to breathe!"  
  
Weiss shook his hand to get the sting out. Sark laughed. "I could have told you she bites."  
  
Sydney snatched Weiss' hand. She pressed her lips to it. "There. All kissed better."  
  
Weiss smiled at her. "Much."  
  
Sydney smiled back sweetly and Sark could see Weiss' heart melting into puddle of chocolate goo. Sydney had that effect on most male members of the species, even without Rambaldi's concoction. She was easy to fall in love with.  
  
Easy to fall in love with, certainly, but staying alive to stay in love was somewhat problematical.  
  
Sark moodily considered Sydney's romantic history. Perhaps getting involved with her would be a mistake. A ghastly, huge, lethal mistake, punctuated by Irina castrating him for cheating on her with her daughter. Sydney's lovers did have this nasty habit of ending up dead and not only was Irina very protective of her, she was also extremely possessive of him.  
  
Sark thought about it, half listening to Sydney and Weiss' play-by-play commentary on the ongoing CIA orgy. Irina probably wouldn't kill him, he decided. Not if Sydney wanted him. Besides, she was still locked up. Of course, she would get out sooner or later, but by then he could be anywhere from Christchurch to Tuktuyaktuk.  
  
No, the really worrisome thing was The Curse. He really didn't want to end up as dead as Danny Hecht or Noah ... Noah ... whatever his last name was. Sark frowned. The Curse had got whatsiname too, so obviously being a bad guy didn't confer any immunity.  
  
Obviously, the only true safety lay in making sure Sydney didn't fall in love with him. She hadn't even slept with Vaughn and the poor sap had almost bought it twice because of her, even if you only counted nearly drowning and the Circumference virus.  
  
Sark smirked. Maybe that was the key. Keep it physical. All of The Curse's victims had been in love with Sydney or she with them. He would be safe as long they kept it to the physical.  
  
Now that wouldn't be an imposition and he was fairly certain he could keep Sydney annoyed enough the rest of the time to foil any emotional involvement.  
  
"Sark? Sark? Hey?" Sydney snapped her fingers in front of his face. Sark blinked at her. She was leaning close, staring into his eyes, a tiny frown squinching a line between her brows. She looked concerned. She looked as beautiful as any woman he'd ever seen. She looked like a bad bet he was going to take anyway. "Are you okay?"  
  
He lifted his hands and cupped them around her face.  
  
"Sark?"  
  
"I am so screwed," he murmured and kissed her.  
  
After a long while and some throat clearing by Weiss, they separated. Sydney grinned at him. "Well, you could be, if we get out of here and go back to your place."  
  
To hell with The Curse, Sark decided.  
  
They got to their feet. Weiss threw his arms around Sydney and kissed her. Just when Sark was starting to feel a little irritated, the agent pulled away and laid big smacking kiss on Sark. When he finally pulled back, Weiss grinned at them both.  
  
"Unless I'm invited to go with you two, I'm going to go find Mike," he declared, "and molest - I mean, rescue him from Ursula Horribilus."  
  
Sydney wrapped her arms around Sark from behind.  
  
"Mike?" she echoed. "You mean Vaughn?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Sydney squeezed Sark and shrugged. "Okay." She threaded her fingers through his hair in what was definitely a caress. Sark leaned into it, wanting to purr like a cat.  
  
Weiss slipped out from behind their potted palm and Sydney leaned closer and whispered into Sark's ear, "The dye washes out, right?'  
  
"Yeth."  
  
She bit his earlobe in retaliation for the lisp, because it made her toes curl (Why? Did it really matter why? It did.), and Sark, the unprincipled bastard, seemed to have figured that out.  
  
"Good," she said. "Let's go."  
  
And they went.  
  
  


_Fin_

_  
  
_


End file.
